


Souvenir

by gryffindormischief



Series: Fresh Pickled Toad [36]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunkenness, Engagement, Established Relationship, F/M, Stag Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6928372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindormischief/pseuds/gryffindormischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Harry needs a Stag Party</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souvenir

**Author's Note:**

> Harry, Ron, and George with no supervision, so things should be fine, yes? :P hope you enjoy

“D’you ‘member that time with Romil-,” Ron broke off with a hiccup, nearly toppling off his chair with the force of it, “ _Romilda_ and the love potion?”

George snickered from his seat across the table in Aberforth’s secret back room for that was reserved for ‘picky’ customers, and Harry nodded solemnly, “You almost _died_.”

All three sat in silence for a few moments, before breaking out in inappropriate guffaws, given the weight of the topic, as one is wont to do when one has imbibed too much alcohol. Normally, the trio drank in relative moderation, but tonight was a _special_ occasion; one of their number would be a bachelor no more come next week.

Aberforth had come in about a quarter of an hour earlier with a grunt, plopping a jug on the table and an order to drink it. Ron had grabbed it eagerly and poured some into his glass, taking a large gulp, only to scowl when he realized it was water. Unwilling to cope with this injustice inwardly, he let out a loud ‘Oi!’ in the barkeepers direction. Unfazed, the barkeeper mumbled something about ‘wizards who can’t handle their drink,’ and lumbered out.

The party had thinned out considerably since its start nearly four hours ago. Percy and Neville had left fairly early, the former to care for his pregnant wife, and the latter to tend his blossoming snarfalump and mandrake hybrid. No one was quite sure _why_ a mandrake with tentacles would benefit anyone, but Neville seemed fairly excited, so they were too. Charlie hadn’t been able to make it this early before the wedding, but Bill had come with well wishes on his behalf, and left to get home because, in George’s words, ‘his wife is a _veela._ ’ Bill had smacked his brother’s head and strode toward the private floo in the corner with a wink for Ron and Harry, “He’s not _entirely_ wrong,” before he disappeared in the emerald flames.

This had prompted the three remaining partygoers to a long session of reminiscing about their adventures at Hogwarts, beginning with the Triwizard Tournament and eventually ending up with Harry and Ron introducing George to the wonder that was Romilda Vane and her ill advised use of a love potion.

George patted Ron on the shoulder, then gripped it forcefully, “’m glad you didn’t die.”

Ron smiled lazily and slurred, “Hey! Whattabout the _tattoo_ story.”

Harry looked puzzled for a moment, staring intently at the label on the bottle of firewhisky as if it held the answers to all the questions of the universe before his eyes lit up, “Ginny!”

“Ginny isn’t here so you don’t have to suck up Harry,” George drawled, tossing a peanut in the air, only to have it land in his eye.

Ron handed his brother a wet napkin so he’d ‘stop whinging about salt in his eyes,’ and picked up the thread of their somewhat muddled conversation, “Nah, Ginny was relevant this time, she made up a story t’bother ‘Milda.”

Harry nodded enthusiastically, “tol’ her I had a Hungarian tattoo…on my _chest_.”

George looked puzzled, considering why his future brother-in-law would have a tattoo of a Hungarian on his chest, and more importantly _why_ Ginny would know what Harry’s chest looked like in her fifth year. While Ron had been forced to witness the nature of Harry and Ginny’s relationship that year, George remained blissfully oblivious, first by luck and then by sheer willpower. Sure he’d take the mickey, but in his opinion, any carnal knowledge the pair had of each other should never become confirmed truth. All sprogs would be the result of a friendly stork. Scratching the earless side of his face absentmindedly, George took in his companions – Harry, with his head pillowed on his arm, a blissful expression on his face, and Ron, staring unseeingly into his empty glass, brow furrowed.

Suddenly, the youngest Weasley son jolted, “It was a _horntail,_ ‘cause of the _dragon_. Then she said I had a _pigmy puff_.”

Harry’s eyes unfogged, “Yes! Yer th’ _bes’_ Ron. ‘cept Gin, she’s the _real_ best.”

Ron looked momentarily indignant before Harry clarified, “Yer still th’ bes’ _Ron_.”

Slightly mollified, Ron nodded and George cut in, eyes glinting, “I’ve an _idea_.”

The first rays of sunlight broke through George’s bare living room window, unforgivingly waking all three men sprawled across the mismatched furniture. Harry flipped onto his back and groaned, “I feel like I’ve been run over by a hippogriff. Remind me to never drink again. Also you need a new couch George.”

“Sorry it’s not the _Ritz_ your Highness,” the older Weasley growled from underneath a lumpy yellow blanket on the floor.

Ron had yet to move from his position sprawled across a plaid armchair, and if it weren’t for his steady, buzz saw like snoring, his compatriots would have been more concerned. The raven-haired groom slid his body down the lumpy couch and kicked his best mate with a bare foot; _Where is my sock?_ _I hope that shoe is here somewhere._

After a second prod, Ron jumped, eyes open wide, “Oi!”

George stood, joints popping, mumbling about ‘being too old for this,’ and ambled off in search of pepper up potion. After all three had downed their share, Ron stood, sniffed himself, and declared that he needed a shower, before heading off toward the loo. Harry was feeling around for his glasses in the couch cracks, _aha! I’ve found you,_ when a horrified shout broke from down the hall. He and George looked at each other with quick, questioning glances, before barreling down the hall, the former wielding a glittery muggle mermaid lamp and the latter a pillow. When Harry raised an eyebrow, George shrugged, “What? I panicked.”

With an eye roll, Harry burst into the bathroom, only to be greeted by his best mate’s bare backside. Covering his eyes he dropped the apparently indestructible lamp and yelped, “Aw c’mon _Ron_ , it’s not even seven!”

“Look closely Harry,” Ron instructed from below.

“Uh, I’d rather not,” Harry answered from his place in the hall.

George broke in, “Would you two like to be alone?”

Both turned and glared while Ron told George exactly where he wanted him to stuff his ugly lamp.

Unfazed George plowed on, “Still freckly and pale as usual, sorry bro, it’s a Weasley trait. Hermione better get used to it.”

Ron stood and after much shouting from Harry, wrapped a towel around his waist, “That’s not _all_ she’s going to have to get used to.” Slowly, he turned and let the towel droop down, sighing, “Left cheek.”

George collapsed with loud guffaws as Harry tried to hold in his laughter. Meanwhile, Ron turned, ears burning red and about to let a barrage of expletives loose when he remembered his pain was likely shared, “Hey Harry, why don’t you take your shirt off.”

Looking up from his slumped position in the hallway, George snickered, “We’ve been through this, he’s not interested.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as Ron prompted him to remove the shirt again. When he reached down for the hem of his t-shirt, Harry felt some mild tenderness in his chest, _must be from sleeping on that damn couch._

Ron and George let out identical gasps when Harry lifted his shirt, although the reason was unclear given his tangled state. After he finished removing the stale-smelling garment Ron turned Harry toward the mirror, “ _Shite_.”

Nearly an hour later, Ron and Harry arrived at Grimmauld Place with high hopes that the girls were still asleep and a plan that was mainly ‘keep the tattoos hidden indefinitely.’ Both snuck up the stairs, trying, and often failing, to avoid the creaky stairs. With commiserating grimaces, both tiptoed past Hermione and Ginny’s rooms and snuck into theirs, closing the doors quietly. Just as Harry was slipping off his trousers, he heard Hermione ask Ron with a carefully controlled yet quite shrill voice, “ _Why_ is there a _pigmy puff_ on your _arse_?”

Harry inched his door open and peeked out the small crack, watching the situation unfold – Hermione hands on hips and Ron pulling up his sweats. As Hermione pinned Ron with her best ‘tell me everything’ glare that had already made her a living legend in the world of magical law, Ginny threw her door open, face still wrinkled with pillow lines, “Wassgoin’ on?”

Hermione quirked a brow but kept her gaze locked on Ron, “Take off your pants Mr. Weasley.”

Ginny was suddenly more coherent, “I don’t know if this is some kind of weird foreplay but I would _really_ rather not be here for it if you don’t mind.”

Placing a hand over his mouth, Harry attempted to stifle a snort, but three pairs of eyes immediately zeroed in on him and Hermione pounced, “Do _you_ know anything about this _defacement_ of Ron’s posterior?”

Worst stag party, _ever_. “Maybe.”

Ginny delightedly broke in, “I changed my mind, please pull your pants down, _brother dear_.”

Ron’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he turned his back to the small audience and pulled down the waistband of his sweats, exposing his bum. Harry re-examined the ‘defacement’ in the light of day – the entire top half of Ron’s left arse cheek was covered in a life-like, and moving, tattoo of a pink pigmy puff.

“Oh it looks just like Arnold!” Ginny exclaimed, eyes sparkling with glee when she shot a glance toward Harry. Her eyes traveled back to Ron before her brow furrowed in thought, “Was this because of Romilda in fifth year?”

Ron tugged his sweats back up and answered with sarcasm dripping from his voice, “ _No_ , I just love the little buggers.”

Ignoring her brother’s sass, Ginny turned her gaze back to her fiancé, her expression unreadable, “Harry take off your shirt.”

Harry’s eyes widened behind his glasses, “Uh, no.”

“Do it or I’ll come do it for you,” Ginny growled.

_Ginny wants to take your shirt off…that can’t be bad…what would be bad about that…except for the fact that half of your chest is covered by –_

Harry’s internal debate cut off when he felt his fiancé’s cool fingers grip the hem of his shirt and make quick work of slipping it over his head. She didn’t move for a moment, eyes locked on his chest, _she’s going to break it off now, and marry Neville’s Snarfadrake…or would it be Manlump?_

Slowly, he was brought back to reality by Ginny’s slow mapping of the Hungarian Horntail with her fingers. Abruptly, the youngest Weasley dropped her hand and looked up at Harry, face flushed and eyes glassy, calling over her shoulder, “We’ll see you both later.”

Ginny pushed Harry into his room and onto the bed before she slammed the door closed. Harry scrunched his face in confusion, “You’re not mad?”

She turned from the door and sprawled her body over his, “ _Quite_ the opposite.”

 


End file.
